Lenses
by Mi Mariposita
Summary: He was stubborn; she was severe. So how, exactly, did they end up together?
1. CHPT 1: Rough Beginnings

_Title_ : **Lenses**

 _Author_ : Mi Mariposita / notquiteandrea

 _Warning(s)_ : Light cursing. Slightly sexual themes. SFW.

 _Details_ : My interpretation of how the relationship between Dwight K. Schrute and Angela Martin began.

 _Word Count_ : 2023

 _Disclaimer_ : All characters, events, objects, etc. that were the property of _The Office_ and NBC before this fanfiction are still the property of _The Office_ and NBC. I just took some... creative liberties. Dotted some i's and crossed some t's, if you will.

 _Author's Note_ : A special thank you goes to Tumblr user _thestagthatlovedthewolf_ for supporting and encouraging my Dwangela obsession... and for listening to my half-baked fanfiction ideas. This story covers the _very_ beginning of Dwight and Angela's relationship; it is anticipated to consist of four chapters. Furthermore, this story is unbeta'd, but if you have any interest in helping a girl out...

 _Update(s)_ :

[06/26/17] - Minor text edits.

[07/28/17] - Minor text edits.

=/\=/\=/\=

 **Lenses**

CHPT. 1: Rough Beginnings

=/\=/\=/\=

The bright red folder caught Angela's attention, but the bold, black letters that read " **ACCOUNTING** " secured her interest. She shot a glance at the accounting cluster, but Oscar and Kevin were too wrapped up in God knows what to notice that the discretionary spending reports had been stolen from right beneath their apathetic, inattentive noses.

Angela rolled her eyes. Oscar and Kevin were utterly and completely useless. She took two minutes – _not even_ – for a restroom break, and suddenly just anybody could wander into accounting and take whatever they pleased.

Not on her watch.

She crossed her arms and angrily marched over to the guilty salesman. He sat nonchalantly in his stupid chair, slowly turning one direction and then the other. His eyes were focused on the stolen reports in his hands, and Angela barely resisted the urge to rip the glasses right off of his unsuspecting face.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked sharply.

"Looking for evidence of malfeasance," he muttered indifferently, not bothering to look at the bitter blonde. He fingered through a few more pages of spreadsheets, only to be violently interrupted when Angela snatched the folder from his hand, spreadsheets and all.

"You're not authorized to look at these."

She swiftly pivoted and headed back towards her desk. Furious, Dwight jumped up from his seat and abruptly cut her off. "As the Assistant Regional Manager–"

"Assistant _to_ the Regional Manager," she corrected with a smirk.

Dwight narrowed his eyes, and Angela met his indignant expression with full force. He didn't understand her eyes; they were a different color almost every time he saw them, and it was infuriating. One day, they'd be bright green, but the next day, they'd be almost brown, and he couldn't make sense of it. Today, they looked sort of grey, but she was dressed in all grey, so maybe that had something to do with it. But regardless of color, her eyes were almost always hostile and accusing.

"Move," she said, slowly enunciating the word.

She derailed his train of thought. It didn't matter if her eyes were stupid (and kind of alluring, but mostly stupid); she was obstructing _justice_.

"Give me the forms."

"No."

Another pause, but Angela wasn't going to back down. Her father had been a strict disciplinarian during her youth, and unlike her sisters, she hadn't let his teachings go to waste. Show no signs or symptoms of weakness; never back down, even when backed into a corner. She knew that she had a reputation as the office bitch, but she wasn't a bitch. She had honor and dignity and integrity, and if standing up for God and the Bible and moral decency made people call her a bitch, then so be it. It was better than being weak or being a jezebel… like _certain_ other people in the office.

And then there was Dwight, who had the proper framework of a decent gentleman, but he wasted it on being a complete and total idiot.

Despicable.

"Fine," Dwight spat. "I'll just have Michael _order_ you to give me the spending reports."

"Fine. But until then, you're not getting them," she hissed. Dwight scowled at her once more before he broke their gaze and quickly retreated back to his desk. Angela walked back to the accounting cluster and sat down, knowing that Dwight was watching her from the corner of his eye.

She reached into the collar of her turtleneck and revealed a necklace with a tiny key on it. Dwight, more than slightly curious, angled his chair towards her in order to get a better look at what she was doing. Angela took the necklace off and used the key to unlock the bottom drawer of her desk. She quickly slid the folder containing the discretionary spending reports inside the drawer, relocked it, and refastened the golden chain around her neck.

She looked back to Dwight, and he casually met her gaze. Challenging him with the raise of an eyebrow, she stood, grabbed her empty coffee mug, and headed for the kitchen.

Game on.

=/\=/\=/\=

"He can't keep getting away with this!" she exclaimed, anxiously pacing across the annex. Her hands were wild and animated; her face exuded nothing but frustration and pent up anger. Toby would say that he'd never seen her this mad, but hell, she was thoroughly outraged every other week, regardless of whether the situation warranted it or not. Which it rarely did. "When is somebody going to _do_ something about him?!"

Toby nodded quietly as he pretended to write down more information on the complaint form. He had already filled out the basics, but a meeting with Angela was never a brief one, and he knew from experience that she'd yell at him if he didn't appear to take down her every word. After all, she was in the annex almost daily complaining about _something_ \- or some _one_ , usually a toss-up between Dwight, Michael, Phyllis, or Pam. Dwight for doing something absurd, Michael for doing something absurd, Phyllis for not listening to her, and Pam for… the sake of it? He knew Angela would serve his freshly skewered head on a platter if she ever found out that he didn't actually file her complaints against Pam, but he couldn't help it. Pam was sweet and kind - maybe the only person in the office who was actually _nice_ to him. She didn't deserve to have her record tarnished just because Angela disapproved of perfectly acceptable work clothes.

"He broke into my desk _again_ ," she yelled. God help her, what was Dwight's problem? How petty and ridiculous could a person be? She just might have contemplated selling her soul to the devil if it meant getting Dwight out of her hair – and out of her desk – once and for all. "Do you know how many times I've had to have that lock fixed? Four. _Four_ times. Dwight has broken into my desk _four times_ , and that's four times too many! When does it end?"

Toby continued to nod absentmindedly, knowing that if he let her rant long enough and pretended to agree with what she was saying, she'd be fine. She'd tire herself out... eventually.

"Do you know how much it costs to replace a lock? It's not cheap. I mean, yes, the money comes out of the discretionary spending funds, but we _could_ be spending that money on something _useful_! It could go to the Party Planning Committee, or we could get a new coffee maker for the break room, or…"

"Mmhmm, yeah," Toby murmured, casting a glance at his watch. It was twenty past five, and he was ready to leave. He had already promised Cathy that he would take Sasha to soccer practice, although he didn't quite understand the point of four-year-olds playing soccer; they spent most of the time running around the field with no concern for the ball. Besides, why did soccer practice fall on him just because Cathy had plans with her rich new boyfriend?

"It's just disrespectful! It doesn't matter how badly he _thinks_ he needs to see those forms, he can't break into my desk and _steal_ them! Of all the half-baked, idiotic…"

=/\=/\=/\=

Dwight frowned as he looked over the pay stub. "This isn't right," he muttered to himself, shaking his head almost unperceivably. He turned towards the bullpen and analyzed the expressions of the other salesmen, none of whom appeared to be giving their pay stubs a second thought. Several of his coworkers were packing up their stuff, and Stanley, unsurprisingly, had already left for the weekend.

Dwight furrowed his brows, clearly perplexed. Oscar walked by his desk, and Dwight flagged down the passing accountant. "Oscar," he called. "There's something wrong with my paycheck."

The Hispanic man didn't skip a beat. "Take it up with Angela," he replied, tossing Dwight a quick glance without stopping.

Dwight looked at the accounting cluster over his shoulder as Oscar fled the office. Only one accountant remained, a petite blonde woman with a soul of pure evil. Dwight cringed visibly. Why did it have to be _Angela_? She was rigid and unyielding and just plain _mean_ … which weren't necessarily bad qualities to have, but God, they made her absolutely impossible to deal with.

Dwight sighed.

At least she wasn't Kevin. Rigid, he could handle, but feeblemindedness? No, thank you. He didn't exactly mind Angela's austere disposition – in fact, if she ever stopped trying to hinder his efforts to improve their workplace, he wouldn't object to having her on his side. She ranked quite high on many of his lists of people in the office to make an alliance with in the event of various apocalyptic scenarios.

So did Kevin, though - but as a potential source of food. Angela ranked fairly low as a potential food source.

Dwight shook the thoughts of apocalyptic destruction out of his head and looked back at his pay stub. Letting out a slow breath, he tried to mentally prepare himself for the battle ahead. He set his briefcase on his desk, stood up, and swiftly ambled back to accounting. "Angela," he said, as cordially as he could muster. "There's something wrong with my paycheck."

"Let me see it," she said laconically. She turned towards him and held her hand out expectantly. Dwight swallowed the lump in his throat as he dropped the check in her hand. Angela gave the paper a onceover before looking up at him, a fleeting hint of cockiness dancing across her face. She cocked an eyebrow. "Looks fine to me."

"Fine?" he exclaimed, annoyed at her callous disposition. He hunched over her desk, his face closer to hers than she would have liked. "I'm missing two hundred dollars!"

She could practically feel the steam coming off of his boiling blood. God, he was furious. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. She knew that it wasn't right to enjoy making him so angry, but she couldn't help but indulge in the feelings of victory and success. His eyes were glowing mad, extraordinarily raw and powerful. Almost exotic. Thrilling, even.

"Hmm."

She stopped her mind cold in its tracks. She knew from experience that if she stayed on that train of thought, it would only lead to improper feelings and impure dreams. It was best to nip it in the bud and save herself the trouble of cleansing her mind later. Besides, she was thinking these things about _Dwight_ , and she hated Dwight. Absolutely loathed him.

She quickly regained her composure and wiped the smirk from her own face.

Dwight noticed a subtle change in her expression, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. She had gone from unpleasant to slightly more unpleasant, but that wasn't the end of it. Her eyes, which happened quite green that day, had gone from bright to dull, and Dwight didn't know why it happened or what it meant.

"I wonder what could have caused that," she droned. She slowly pushed her chair back, and when she had moved back far enough, she tapped her foot against her desk, bringing Dwight's attention to the intricate new lock that adorned her bottom drawer.

Dwight slammed a fist down on her desk. Hard. "You took _money_ from my paycheck to pay for your stupid drawer?"

" _You_ broke my stupid drawer," she gnarled.

"It doesn't cost two hundred dollars to fix a lock! I could do it with some glue and a paperclip," he hissed.

"Well," she said, standing up slowly, her eyes never leaving his. "Since you're the one who broke my lock, you don't get a say in how I fix it." She grabbed her purse from the back of her seat and forcefully shoved her chair under her desk. Even at five feet tall, she almost seemed to tower over him when she gave him that gruesome glare of hers. But she wasn't about to win this one.

Not if he could help it.

"You can't do that."

She picked his pay stub up from her desk and slapped it against his chest. "It looks like I already did."

=/\=/\=/\=


	2. CHPT 2: Through the Fog

_Title_ : **Lenses**

 _Author_ : Mi Mariposita / notquiteandrea

 _Warning(s)_ : Light cursing. Slightly sexual themes. SFW.

 _Details_ : My interpretation of how the relationship between Dwight K. Schrute and Angela Martin began.

 _Word Count_ : 3355

 _Disclaimer_ : All characters, events, objects, etc. that were the property of _The Office_ and NBC before this fanfiction are still the property of _The Office_ and NBC. I just took some... creative liberties. Dotted some i's and crossed some t's, if you will. Oh, and also, certain song lyrics that I don't want to spoil are 100% not mine and belong to the writer/producer/whatever.

 _Author's Note_ : I've had some version of this piece written out for weeks, and I finally figured out where it belonged. I will not apologize for the cheesy ending of this chapter. Again, _thestagthatlovedthewolf_ / Veridissima, thank you for all of your support and encouragement! Hopefully, fanfiction is better than an e-thank you card. And again, I'm rogue and unbeta'd, but I could be persuaded to change my ways… Also, I have a busy week ahead, so I'll be on a brief writing hiatus. Expect an update on this story early-to-mid July.

 _Update(s)_ :

[07/28/17] - Minor text edits.

=/\=/\=/\=

 **Lenses**

CHPT. 2: Through the Fog

=/\=/\=/\=

The cold air hit her like a brick.

She had spent her entire life in cold climates, but that didn't mean she had to like it. If anything, she preferred to be a bit warm, but unfortunately for her, Scranton seemed to be stuck in a yearlong winter, and the last few months had been particularly unforgiving. There wasn't a coat thick enough, a scarf long enough, or a glove warm enough to circumvent the frigid winds of a northern Pennsylvania snowstorm.

Luckily for Angela, February was coming to a close, and the days were slowly creeping closer and closer to spring. Technically, it would be spring in just under a month, but Angela knew that the official label meant nothing. Spring truly started in mid to late April, usually around April 18th, to be exact, and that was the date Angela would be looking forward to as she crossed the days off of her cat-themed calendar.

But spring wouldn't be nearly as nice this year, what with that ridiculous documentary crew coming to film the office for God only knew how long. Angela had considered not agreeing to the whole thing and just finding another job, but (a) she didn't particularly _want_ to find another job, and (b) _somebody_ would have to stand up for good, decent, moral values, and she didn't trust anybody else in the office to fulfill _that_ role.

She sighed. At least the documentary crew wouldn't be coming around until May, so she would have a few more months of life uninterrupted by cameras and sound equipment and whatever else documentary crews required.

Angela shook the thought from her mind; she really didn't want to think about the documentary. She pulled her hands into the sleeves of her coat as she quickly sauntered along to her car. She didn't like to park facing the building, and she didn't like to park too far from the entrance of the parking lot. In fact, she had one particular spot that she preferred to park in, two spaces in from the entrance and facing the street; it had no unfortunate markings or stains. Since she often arrived early at the office, she usually didn't have to battle for her parking space, but from time to time, Phyllis would arrive before her and snatch it up.

Unfortunately for Angela, today had been one of those days.

She let out a loud, annoyed huff of air as she walked to her backup parking spot. When would Phyllis stop stealing her space? Not only had Angela filed an official complaint regarding her coworker's thievery – _twice_ – but she had asked Phyllis _personally_ to stop parking in her spot, and the older woman had assured her that it wouldn't be a continuing problem.

Angela had been right not to trust her.

The next best spot was at the far end of the lot, where her vehicle currently sat. It was parked next to the only other car that remained, a bronze Datsun that she happened to know belonged to Dwight Schrute.

She didn't know that out of any interest, of course, but because he never stopped talking about restoring that stupid car. Good for him, being an effective mechanic and all, but could he just _shut up_ about it every once in a while? Because she really didn't care.

Really, she didn't.

Angela shook her head disapprovingly as she arrived at her car. She unlocked the rear door and shoved her keys in her purse before removing her scarf and her winter coat. She laid the dusky grey coat down over the backseat and plopped her cream-colored scarf neatly on top of it. A strong gust of wind hit her as she shut the door, causing her to shiver violently as she reached the driver's side.

Good Lord, it was _cold_. She couldn't wait to crank up the heat and head home. Her newest kitten, Lumpy, would be glad to see her. He was only a few months old and an absolutely adorable ball of fluff. Her other cats were a little jealous of all the attention that Lumpy was getting, and Angela hoped to spend the evening resolving some of the tension.

She absentmindedly tugged at the driver's door handle, but the door didn't budge. Angela frowned and looked down at the door, confused. She pulled the handle once more, but still, nothing happened. She sighed and reached for her purse but felt nothing at her hip. "What?" she whispered to herself, looking around in bewilderment. A quick glimpse at the backseat revealed that she had subconsciously set her purse down on the car floor, and Angela sighed with relief. She went to retrieve her purse, only to find that the rear door was locked as well.

"No," she muttered, walking around to the other side of her car to check the other doors. They were all locked. "No, no, no!" she exclaimed, smacking her hand against an innocent window.

A voice caught her off guard. "Angela? Is there a problem?"

She looked up, startled, and saw Dwight standing just outside of the building. Even in the distance, she could see that he was still wearing that stupid ski hat with the ear flaps. It was some sort of sci-fi paraphernalia, but she had no idea what it was associated with. Probably that _Battleship Galaxy_ show he was always going on about.

"Does it _look_ like there's a problem?" she spat, mildly annoyed by his general presence.

Dwight looked startled and a little taken back by her harsh tone. He hadn't anticipated her yelling at him, but that had apparently been too much to assume.

Upon seeing his sour expression, Angela regretted having snapped at him. She hadn't meant to sound so harsh. He was only being nice – for once – and truth be told, she could use his help. She wasn't going to _beg_ for it, but if he offered… "I locked myself out of my car," she said, attempting to sound more gentle.

That would explain why she had been so violent towards her window. Dwight squinted, trying to keep the sun out of his eyes. "I can help you," he suggested. Ever since Meredith had shown him how to break into a locked car ("the easy way," she had called it), he had only been able to practice on his own vehicle – well, and twice on Meredith's van, but those attempts had failed, and Meredith had yelled at him for doing it wrong. Dwight hadn't expected to use this skill to help a damsel in distress, but he supposed that it was a fairly nice benefit.

Angela nodded as she rubbed her hands over her arms in an attempt to keep warm and stop shivering. She wished that she had just kept her coat on, and then none of this would have happened; she'd have been warm and well on her way home. "That would be acceptable. Thank you."

She looked away from him and down at her car. She hoped that the ordeal would be over with quickly, but given that it was _Dwight_ she was talking about, he would probably find some way to mess it up. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Dwight nodded once. "Of course." He could tell that she was uncomfortable for whatever reason, probably because she needed help. She didn't seem like the type to ask for aid, and Dwight could appreciate that. More often than not, people tended to screw everything up.

He swiftly made his way to his car. As he got closer, he noticed that Angela was shivering and rubbing her hands together to create friction. He knew that she had had a coat on when she had left the office, so he could only assume that it, too, was locked in her car. He gave her a quick up and down. She was a small person, so her body probably processed temperature changes quite rapidly.

Again, not a good source of food in the event of an apocalypse.

Dwight quickly popped his trunk open and tossed his briefcase inside before shrugging off his own coat. "Here," he said, tossing it to her. "You look cold."

Startled, Angela caught the sizeable coat as Dwight began digging around in his trunk. She stared at the faded green garment, appalled at the thought of wearing it. She opened her mouth to argue, but good God, it was _freezing_ outside, and the worn winter coat felt warm in her hands.

Plus, it was a nice gesture, offering her his coat. Very gentlemanlike. Granted, he had _thrown_ the coat at her, but still.

Still.

She closed her mouth and hoped that her cheeks were already red from the cold because she didn't want him to see the crimson blush that was undoubtedly creeping its way up to her face.

"Won't you be cold?" she asked, holding the coat back out to him.

Dwight snorted, not looking up. "Schrutes don't get cold."

Angela looked at him quizzically. "Then why do you have a jacket?"

"Social obligation."

She sighed, unable to restrain herself from another eye roll. She watched as Dwight puttered around in his trunk, and she quickly slid the coat on. The shoulders were huge and bulky, and they stuck out awkwardly from her petite frame. The sleeves fell several inches below her fingertips, and the bottom of the long trench coat hit the ground.

She felt ridiculous, but warm.

Dwight, having found what he needed, slammed his trunk shut and walked around to the side of her car. "Ok, I've got a wedge and a…" he trailed off as he saw her. He was mesmerized by the image in front of him. Angela was completely engulfed by his coat, wrapped up snugly like a tiny doll in a duvet. Her cheeks and her ears and the tip of her nose were all beet red, a stark contrast against her normally pale complexion. Her fine, blonde hair whipped around in the wind, only slightly restricted by a thin, black headband.

Dwight stood still, mouth agape. Not for the first time, he thought that she looked rather beautiful.

Captivating.

Under his intense stare, Angela felt another rush of blush sprint up to her cheeks. She normally despised being the object of the male gaze; she usually found it to be uncomfortable, and more often than not, just plain _disgusting_.

But this… well, it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

There wasn't anything vulgar about the way he was looking at her, nothing lustful or inappropriate in his eyes. No, he was simply looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and with that _look_ in his eyes, she could almost believe it.

Almost.

Just as quickly as the charming thoughts had infiltrated her mind, Angela suppressed them. She quickly pulled the coat more tightly to her body, cocooning herself inside. Sure, Dwight was being amicable – _for now_ – but she hadn't forgotten about the desk fiasco last week. Dwight had been a total ass, and it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility for him to be planning some sort of revenge. Granted, he probably would have enacted it by now, but she couldn't be totally certain of that.

Besides, Angela wasn't about to stand there and let herself be ogled like some cheap hussy. Even if it _seemed_ innocent enough.

She scowled at him.

"What's that for?" she asked, nodding at the thin metal rod in Dwight's hand.

Dwight looked down at his hands, having completely forgotten that he was carrying anything at all. He blinked. "It's a, uh, a malleable wire. I can unlock your car with it."

"Oh," she responded quietly. She realized that she hadn't known exactly how Dwight had planned to help her. She had no idea how to break into a locked car, and she wasn't entirely surprised that Dwight did. He seemed to have a knack for unusual skill sets. _Criminal_ skill sets, she reminded herself. "That's very resourceful of you."

"Thank you," he said with a small nod. He cautiously approached the rear door of her car. "Could you hold this for me?" he asked, offering her the thin metal rod. Angela nodded and quickly pushed the coat sleeves up to her elbows, only for them to sink back down to her wrists. Ignoring the sleeves, she took the wire from him, and Dwight turned to her car. He began to slowly maneuver a wedge between the door and the body of the car, but then he paused and looked back at Angela. "Do you want to know what I'm doing? In case this happens again."

"Oh, um… sure. Ok." She nodded slightly and took a step towards him, standing up on the tips of her toes so that she could clearly see what he was doing. She couldn't foresee needing to know how to break into a car, but she hadn't foreseen this incident, either. And if she learned now, then she wouldn't need Dwight's help in the future.

Well, except that she didn't exactly _mind_ his help. It was rather sweet of him, really, to help her out after they had both already stayed so late at the office. She knew that he probably wanted to get home to that beet farm he talked about so often. The way he described it, it sounded almost magical.

"It's not difficult," he promised, interrupting her thoughts. "Do you see how I used the wedge to create an opening between the door and the chassis?"

"Yes," she responded, shifting her attention back to his impromptu lesson. A new thought suddenly occurred to her. "This won't damage my car, will it?" she asked, looking up at Dwight nervously.

"No. The gap is only temporary. Once I remove the wedge, it will reseal completely," he assured her. Dwight tried to keep his focus on the task at hand, but it was difficult not to be distracted by her when she was in such close proximity. She faintly smelled of vanilla and ginger, likely because of whatever shampoo she used. Or maybe perfume.

She nodded, relieved. Even through his thick coat, Angela could feel the warmth emanating from his body. Maybe Dwight hadn't been exaggerating about Schrutes not getting cold. "Good."

Dwight swallowed the knot in his throat. "Once you have created a gap, you can insert the wire." He looked to Angela again. "Would you like to do this part?"

An apprehensive look passed across her face. "Oh, I don't know. I better just watch."

"I'll help you," he said, reaching for her hand without a second thought. He froze before he touched her, his fingertips hovering just centimeters above her delicate fingers. His eyes flickered up to hers. "May I?"

As she met his eyes, she could feel her heart pounding in her throat. She nodded softly. "Sure."

Dwight nodded once and gently took ahold of her hand, trying to ignore how tiny and cold it felt in his palm. He guided her to the small gap he had created and helped her to thread the thin wire through it. "Do you see the unlock mechanism?" he asked, pointing to the small button near the inner door handle.

"Yes," she said quickly, trying not to think about how warm and rough his hand felt on hers. His hands were covered in callouses that had probably been formed by years upon years of hard physical labor. Rugged, strenuous, physical labor…

"Good. We're going to use the wire to activate it."

"Ok."

Dwight let go of her hand and watched carefully as Angela attempted to unlock the car. She angled the wire towards the button and tried to press it twice, but the wire bent and slid away every time she applied pressure.

"I can't get it," she huffed, feeling her frustration build up again.

"It's ok," he reassured her. "Try to press it quickly and with force." He pumped a fist up exuberantly to illustrate his point.

Angela jabbed the button once more, and then they heard the quiet _click_ of her car unlocking. She immediately reached for the door handle and easily pulled the door open, letting the wire and wedge fall to the snow-dusted ground. She turned to Dwight excitedly, a bright smile blooming across her face. "We did it!" she exclaimed, eagerly grabbing his hands and squeezing them tightly. Her eyes, which were a strange mix of blue and green that day, lit up brilliantly in the light of the setting sun. "Thank you, Dwight."

Looking at the beaming smile on her face, one spread across Dwight's own. He wasn't sure he had ever seen her smile before, and certainly not so radiantly. He couldn't explain it, but that smile made her look absolutely stunning. A pleasant tingle ran up from his hands and through his body.

In that instant, he decided that he'd like to see her smile more often.

And an instant later, her smile slowly started to fade. Realizing that the moment was over, Dwight quickly let go of her hands and pulled his own stiffly back to his sides.

"It's not a problem," he said standoffishly, nodding once before bending down to pick up the fallen tools. The wedge was small and partially buried under the thin layer of snow that covered the parking lot, and the metal wire was cold to the touch.

Angela promptly removed his coat and folded it neatly over her forearm. She took slow, quiet breaths through her nose, trying to calm the erratic beating of her heart. She told herself that it had nothing to do with Dwight; it was the thrill of having resolved a problem, of having accomplished something.

Even though she had only been able to accomplish it because of him.

 _With him_.

"Here," she chirped, handing his coat back to him as he straightened his posture.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the coat. He took a step back as Angela reached into the backseat to grab her purse. She grabbed the bag quickly and shut the car door slowly, meeting Dwight's eyes awkwardly as she did so.

"See?" he said, gesturing to the door. "No gap."

Angela nodded, giving him a half-smile as she folded her arms across her chest. Until that moment, the cold had managed to slip her mind. "Thank you," she said again. "I really appreciate your help."

"It was no problem," he said as she broke their gaze, turning towards her car. She swiftly unlocked the driver's door and pulled it open. "Get home safe."

He didn't know what else to say, but for some inexplicable reason, he didn't want her to leave just yet. It was the most pleasant interaction he had ever had with her. Or anyone at the office, really.

"I will. See you tomorrow, Dwight." Angela nodded, giving him one last glance before she stepped into her car.

"Yes. Tomorrow." Dwight gave her a quick wave before stepping over to his own vehicle. He watched as she started up her car and pulled out of the parking spot. She gave him a small wave goodbye as she pulled away, and Dwight returned it, still standing with his hand up as she left the parking lot completely.

He eventually turned back to his own car and unlocked it, tossing his jacket onto the passenger seat. He swiftly buckled up his seatbelt and turned on the radio, ready to get home to the farm. An old Mötley Crüe song played through his car stereo, one that he hadn't heard in a while. Dwight couldn't help but feel that it _meant_ something, but he knew that was ridiculous. A lot of his regular stations played Mötley Crüe, and it was only a matter of time before this song eventually circled back around. Still, it seemed unusually… appropriate.

Dwight cranked up the volume and sang along as he pulled out of the parking space, finding that the lyrics made more since now than they ever had before.

" _Now when the winds cry Angela – Angela, I'll be there for you_ …"

=/\=/\=/\=


	3. CHPT 3: On the Brink

_Title_ : **Lenses**

 _Author_ : Mi Mariposita / notquiteandrea

 _Warning(s)_ : Light cursing. Slightly sexual themes. SFW.

 _Details_ : My interpretation of how the relationship between Dwight K. Schrute and Angela Martin began.

 _Word Count_ : 2855

 _Disclaimer_ : All characters, events, objects, etc. that were the property of _The Office_ and NBC before this fanfiction are still the property of _The Office_ and NBC. I just took some... creative liberties. Dotted some i's and crossed some t's, if you will.

 _Author's Note_ : Sorry for the delay in updating. I've been a bit busy, but I made it! Cheers. There's only going to be one more chapter, and it's safe to expect it near the end of July. Hopefully, it'll live up to expectations. As per usual, Veridissima is a wonderful and encouraging human being. Everything is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

 _Update(s)_ :

[07/28/17] - Minor text edits.

=/\=/\=/\=

 **Lenses**

CHPT. 3: On the Brink

=/\=/\=/\=

"Dwight, sit _down_ ," she insisted, forcefully pushing his shoulder. Angela wasn't particularly strong, but with Dwight injured, she didn't have to be. He winced as his ankle gave out beneath him and stumbled back into the stadium seat. Angela made note of the unpleasant scowl on his face, but she was rather annoyed with him at the moment, and being tolerant of his stupidity wasn't high on her list of things to do – not now, not _ever_. She sighed. The second she had heard Michael dare Dwight to try a triple axel jump, she had known _exactly_ how she'd be spending the rest of the afternoon, and she wasn't happy about it.

But then again, his failure had gotten her out of a tedious conversation with Kelly and Phyllis, so that was something to be thankful for. Besides, she'd rather talk to Dwight anyway. At least he talked about more than slutty shoes and where to buy them. "Just be still, and let me look at it."

Dwight scoffed and looked past her, towards the skating rink. Jim and Oscar, who had helped him out of the rink, had already returned to having fun, or at least what looked like fun from where Dwight sat. Oscar was standing with Kevin and Stanley at the edge of the ice, the three of them probably gossiping about him like a bunch of girls. Jim had wasted no time running back to his precious Pam, who, despite having lived in northern Pennsylvania all of her life, had never learned how to ice skate.

Pathetic.

All of them.

He didn't particularly care for Jim or Oscar – _especially_ not Jim, who was without a doubt on a mission to ruin his life – but with both of them gone, his care was left solely in Angela's tiny, capable hands. She was the safety officer, after all (which bothered Dwight greatly; not so much because _she_ was the safety officer, but because _he_ wasn't) and thus she was responsible for the well-being of the office workers in the event of a crisis. Granted, her title normally only applied _at_ the office, but since Michael had forced everyone to come to his birthday party by claiming that it was a required, work-related event (citing something preposterous about office morale), Angela's jurisdiction had expanded to cover the local ice rink, apparently.

Hopefully, Dwight thought, she wasn't the type to let the power go to her head.

Or hopefully she was. He found powerful women to be rather enticing. Or maybe he just found _Angela_ to be rather enticing.

Regardless.

"It'll be fine," Dwight asserted, attempting to stand back up. He didn't want to ruin Michael's birthday with some nonsense about a sprained ankle - not that Michael seemed to care much, aside from being upset that the attention had shifted away from his birthday for all of ten seconds.

His ankle didn't even hurt (much), and he wasn't about to let people _think_ he had been damaged by something as frivolous and juvenile as ice skating. Especially not Angela.

She pushed him back into the chair. She wasn't gentle. "Take your skates off."

"But it doesn't–"

"Just take them off," she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest impatiently. When it came to office safety, Dwight was the single most difficult person to deal with. If he wasn't the one injured, then he was constantly trying to usurp her position as safety officer, even though he didn't know a damn thing about safety. And if he _was_ injured, like now, then he made every attempt to pretend that he wasn't. She supposed he wasn't as bad as Michael, though, who had a tendency to exaggerate the details of an injury beyond rhyme or reason. Why anyone would pretend to be gravely injured by a can opener, she didn't know. It was _appalling_. At least Dwight had dignity. She'd go so far as to say he was the only man in the office with any.

Angela cleared her throat. "If your foot swells, you won't be able to take it off, so I'd recommend you do it now."

Dwight stared at her indignantly. She met his gaze with a soft authoritarian flame; partially commanding, completely hot. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shifted his focus to the frigid air. "Fine," he murmured, reaching for his skates.

She watched as he undid the laces, feeling oddly… titillated, which she ordinarily hated. It was why she refused to read mystery novels (what, with the trouble that Agatha Christie book had gotten her into...). It was an insatiable feeling, one that bypassed all sense of willpower and forced her to keep turning the page. It made her feel powerless, weak, and she didn't like it.

 _Usually_ didn't like it, that is.

She'd be pressing her luck, though, if she dared to act on it and turn this particular page. Besides, it wasn't ladylike, and it wasn't her responsibility. He was the man, after all, and if he had any interest in her… well, then that was his problem. She didn't actively hope that anything would come of it, of course, but it wasn't the _most_ objectionable thought. Their interactions had been quite pleasant, even if seemingly mundane, since that fiasco with her car a few weeks ago. He'd linger a bit too long when turning in the quarterly expense reports; she'd sit near him when Michael conducted pointless meetings in the conference room. Maybe her shoulder would brush by his arm, or his arm by her shoulder, as they left said conference room. And perhaps, more often than not, they'd continue to arrive at the office a little early and leave a little late. And he'd always hold the door for her.

Little things, really.

Nothing gaudy like the rapport between Jim and Pam, God forbid. Their blatant flirting was completely inappropriate, especially in the workplace and _especially_ considering that Pam was engaged to Roy Anderson. Angela normally wouldn't have given them a second thought, except that Pam's desk was right behind hers, and it was absolutely impossible not to overhear their rambunctious giggling.

No, _nothing_ like that. Just little things that had her looking at Dwight a little differently.

A lot differently, actually.

But maybe she was making something out of it that wasn't there. Maybe she was misinterpreting his natural gentleman instincts as targeted affection. But then again, she never saw him casting glances up at Pam's desk. Or Phyllis's or Meredith's. Not that anyone would cast glances at _Meredith_ …

Angela blinked. Now wasn't the time or place to be thinking about such things.

She turned her attention back to Dwight, who was removing the skate from his right foot. That ankle wasn't injured, and the skate came off without a problem. He winced slightly, though, as he attempted to maneuver the skate off of his other foot. Angela felt bad for him, but only a little. He had gotten himself into this mess, after all, and only had himself to blame. But she still grimaced at the sight of his ankle as he pulled his thick, black sock down and revealed a nasty cut. Something had managed to slice right through his sock, and the bloody wound was adorned with black specks of fuzz. A large, red patch bloomed on the lateral side of his ankle, and Angela cringed, knowing that Dwight would have a hell of a bruise in the morning.

"You need to ice this immediately," she said, concerned and shaking her head.

"Can't I just ice it out there?" he asked, gesturing to the rink.

"What? No, don't be ridiculous."

As they bickered, one of the rink workers, a greasy teenaged boy with hair that was inappropriately long and bangs that almost completely covered his shifty eyes, approached Angela with the first aid kit that she had demanded. "Here," he said, holding the clear box out to her.

"Thank you," she said, gingerly taking the first aid kit while trying to avoid making any sort of contact with the boy. "Could you get us some ice, please?"

"We don't have ice," he said apathetically, shoving his hands into the pockets of his uniform. His _wrinkled_ uniform, Angela noted. Very unprofessional.

Angela hated to interact with the youth. Even as a teenager, she had despised it. Most teens were rude and selfish and completely inept. If she ever had kids (and she was on the fence about it), then they'd certainly be respectful and well-mannered. Nothing like today's youth - she'd make sure of it, and she'd expect her future husband to, as well.

She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at the boy. "Really? You don't have any ice? In an _ice_ skating rink?"

The boy - Matt, according to his name tag - wouldn't meet her eyes; he looked away awkwardly as Angela tapped her toe, impatiently waiting for an answer. He muttered something about going to find some ice before quickly fleeing the to the back of the stadium. Angela rolled her eyes and turned back to Dwight, who was trying to discreetly slip his skates back on.

"Stop it!" she said, swatting his hand away.

Dwight flinched and dropped the skate. He stared up at Angela, waiting to be scorned, but she simply sighed. He felt a small ping of relief. "Put your foot up here," she said, patting on the back of a chair in the row in front of him. "You need to elevate it."

"That's a myth," he said dismissively.

She glared at him again, tilting her head an almost unperceivable degree. "Just do it."

He met her heated gaze again. She was an intense woman, but he could appreciate that. Probably better than most men could, and _that_ 's where they went wrong. Some other man would try to tame her, mold her into some cookie cutter woman who cared about shoes and gossip and talking on the phone. Not him, though. No, he preferred her exactly as she was - fierce, stubborn, principled, modest.

Beautiful.

Intelligent.

The total package, really. He wished he had noticed her before, but alas, she had been flying beneath his radar. However, now that he had her in his sight, he wasn't going to let her go without at least throwing his hat into the ring. It wouldn't be easy to win her affection, and he might fail, but that was part of her charm.

He'd been trying to show his interest in her for a few weeks now, slowly yet deliberately. This was a woman who needed to be approached with _finesse_. She was graceful and elegant, and she had standards that needed to be met and maintained; no gross displays of affection or blatant pleas for attention would satisfy her. No, he had to be subtle. Gentle.

And it could be rather difficult to maintain such a painstakingly slow pace, especially at times like this, when it seemed to take all of his strength and willpower to not grab her and kiss her right then and there. It would ruin any slim chance he had with her, of course, but it was all he wanted to do.

Instead, Dwight slowly pulled his leg up and stretched it out over the chair without arguing. Angela didn't smile, but she might as well have as she stepped around the end chairs and down to the next row.

She opened the first aid kit, slid on the latex gloves, and examined what she had to work with. She shook her head, noting that it wasn't fully stocked, which was a major safety violation. Shame on them. "You have a nasty cut from the skate," she said, inspecting the open wound on the side of his ankle. It was gross, but it was nothing compared to those disgusting hooves that Kevin called feet. She looked down at Dwight's skates, curious as to how he had managed to cut himself. "Where did you get those?"

"Made them myself," he said, proudly straightening his posture.

Angela rolled her eyes. Who knew what kind of germs Dwight could have exposed himself to with his ridiculous, homemade death traps? She was mildly impressed that he had made them, though. Mildly. "You're going to want to wash this when you get home, but for now, I can put some antibacterial cream on it and bandage it up."

"And deprive my body the privilege of fighting off foreign antigens? No, thank you," he scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, pulling a pack of antiseptic wipes from the kit. She tore the little bag open, pulled the small towelette out, and began to gently cleanse his wound. Dwight flinched at the burning sensation, but it faded rather quickly. Angela balled up the used wipe and shoved it back into its tiny package before grabbing the miniature tube of antibacterial gel. Dwight watched her with a quiet fascination. She was very efficient, but then again, he already knew that about her. Aside from himself, she was probably the most efficient person in the office.

Maybe even more efficient than himself, he thought, observing how she didn't skip a beat in moving from one task to the next.

The wound wasn't bleeding much, which Angela was grateful for. She applied a generous layer of antibacterial cream as gently as she could. Dwight didn't seem to react much beyond the occasional, involuntary twitch. Angela capped the tube, grabbed a large, square bandage, and swiftly finished tending to his wound. Once finished, she slipped the gloves off, one inside of the other, and closed up the first aid kit.

"Better?" she asked, looking up at him with only the faintest hint of a smile.

"Much."

He had lovely eyes, deep and intense. They were perhaps the most pure shade of blue she'd ever seen, and very easy to get lost in. Too easy, she noticed, upon hearing an awkward cough from the rink boy.

"What?" she snapped, sharply turning her attention to him. She wasn't sure if she was more angry at him for interrupting or at herself for getting carried away, but he was at least partially to blame for her sudden frustration.

"Ice," he said simply, offering her a Ziploc bag of crushed ice wrapped in a few cheap paper towels.

"Thanks," she said, not sounding particularly thankful as she took the damp bag from his hand. She passed it to Dwight, who stared at it perplexedly. "Here," she continued, handing the first aid kit back to the boy. "It's missing an ace bandage. You're supposed to keep these fully stocked, you know. It's the law."

"Yes, Ma'am," he murmured, looking down at his feet. Once Angela had turned back around, he quickly fled the stadium, glad to be removed from the bitchy blonde lady's presence. He didn't get paid enough to deal with people like her.

Turning back to Dwight, she instructed him to hold the bag of ice against the side of his ankle. He tried, but he had to bend rather awkwardly to do so. Angela sighed and took the bag of ice back from him. She sat herself down in the edge seat one row down from him, next to his foot, and kept the makeshift ice pack firmly secured against his ankle. She sat prim and proper, one leg crossed over the other.

Dwight coughed. "Did you have a nice time?"

Angela scoffed. "Please," she said, keeping her eyes razor focused on the rink. Michael was still skating circles around everyone else, and there was no indication of him stopping anytime soon. He'd have to stop eventually, though. For cake and presents. "This whole thing is ridiculous."

He shifted slightly. "How so?"

"How is it _not_? He forces all of us to come to his birthday party by pretending it's a work event." She sighed. "And who knows when this is going to be over? I'm already going to have to stay late tonight to finish the correlated tax forms before sending them to corporate tomorrow, and I don't want to be at the office until midnight." She squeezed the bag of ice tightly, raising an indignant eyebrow as she watched Michael cut in front of Pam, nearly causing the receptionist to fall.

Dwight nodded slowly. He didn't like it when people spoke ill of Michael - especially not subordinates who should respect him - but he understood why she was upset. She had a point. A birthday party really wasn't an appropriate use of company time. "Does the first aid kit at the office have an ace bandage?"

"Yes," she said, questioningly.

"Good. I should really wrap this up," he said, carefully watching as Jim helped Pam out of the rink. He could see the top of Angela's head from the corner of his eye, but he didn't dare look at her. "And you know, I've been meaning to update my client catalog. God, that could take _hours_ … maybe I should stay late, too."

Angela kept her lips tightly pursed, resisting the urge to smile. "Yes," she said. "Maybe you should."

=/\=/\=/\=


	4. CHPT 4: In the Clear

_Title_ : **Lenses**

 _Author_ : Mi Mariposita / notquiteandrea

 _Warning(s)_ : Light cursing. Slightly sexual themes. SFW.

 _Details_ : My interpretation of how the relationship between Dwight K. Schrute and Angela Martin began.

 _Word Count_ : 3483

 _Disclaimer_ : All characters, events, objects, etc. that were the property of _The Office_ and NBC before this fanfiction are still the property of _The Office_ and NBC. I just took some... creative liberties. Dotted some i's and crossed some t's, if you will. I have no association or affiliation with the Pennsylvania Anthracite Heritage Museum. I do, however, hope to visit one day.

 _Author's Note_ : As per usual, the biggest thank you imaginable goes out to Veridissima, who's been nothing but an absolute treasure. Thank you for your constant support, encouragement, and friendship. Furthermore, a huge thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read and/or review this story! I hope this ending was worth the wait. The Pennsylvania Anthracite Heritage Museum idea comes courtesy of a deleted scene from season five. FYI, there will eventually be a companion piece to this story, but I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for it. And lastly, just a heads up, this chapter gets a little mushy, but _isn't that what you're here for_?

=/\=/\=/\=

 **Lenses**

CHPT. 4: In the Clear

=/\=/\=/\=

"Have you ever been to the Anthracite Heritage Museum?" he asked, his eyes lazily trailing over the spreadsheet that occupied his computer screen. Updating his client catalogue had taken exactly one hour, twenty-three minutes, and eighteen seconds, but there he still was, more than an hour later, pretending to be busy. His leg sat propped up on Jim's chair, his ankle firmly wrapped in an ace bandage. After a few aspirin (courtesy of Angela, who kept a bottle in her desk), the pain in his ankle had quickly subsided, but she had still insisted that he not walk around on it too much.

They had _very_ different definitions of what qualified as, "too much."

Angela sat her pen down and looked over at him with an expression that could, at best, be described as eager. "Actually, I have." Dwight turned towards her, surprised by both her verbal reaction and her pleasant smile. "I quite enjoy going to the anthracite museum."

"Really?" Dwight asked, with excitement that perhaps bordered on disturbing. "What's your favorite exhibit?"

"The home exhibits," she answered without missing a beat. "They remind me of simpler times. When men were decent and hardworking, and women wore appropriate, sensible clothing." She had an almost dreamy look in her eyes when she talked about it, and she tried not to think about how the traits and values depicted in the exhibits were, more or less, representative of a certain salesman. "How about you? Have you been?"

"Have I been?" he parroted, as if the notion of having _not_ gone to the museum was completely preposterous. "I take my cousin Mose bimonthly. He loves hearing the stories about the coal miners." Dwight paused, fondly remembering the many times he'd corrected the tour guides' inaccuracies. He looked back at Angela, and upon seeing the gentle smile on her face and the attentive look in her eyes, Dwight decided it was time to pursue his self-assigned mission. "Actually, Mose and I are going to the museum this Saturday."

"Oh?" she asked, just slightly tilting her head.

"Yeah. Mose has been looking forward to it all month," Dwight said, nodding. "McDade Park can be rather busy on the weekends, though, so we usually go in the morning. Avoid the crowds." He sharpened his gaze, fully disclosing his intentions. "Still, I supposed there's a chance we might run into someone familiar."

Angela maintained his gaze, seemingly indifferent. She understood the unspoken meaning of his words and admired the clever, subtle nature in which he had expressed it. "Maybe you will," she said, keeping her expression neutral as she ignored her rapid pulse. Knowing that blushing was inevitable (sometimes she detested her pale complexion for being so quick to betray her), she stared at him for only a moment longer before standing swiftly. "I'm going to make some tea. Would you like anything from the kitchen?"

"A cup of coffee would be nice. Thank you, Angela."

"You're welcome," she said, walking towards his desk to retrieve his coffee cup. Dwight, like herself, only used a specific, designated mug. "Cream? Sugar?" She raised an eyebrow, as if to say his coffee preferences would teach her something about him.

"No," he said firmly. "Black."

Angela let a quick breath in, but she couldn't quite manage to push it back out. She gave him a single, curt nod, pivoted abruptly, and quickly made her way to the kitchen.

Dwight watched as she walked away, waiting until the kitchen door had closed behind her before he pumped a jubilant fist into the air. "Yeah!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper, his expression unabashedly gleeful. Then he quickly regained his composure, straightening his jacket and turning back to his computer (lest Angela happened to see him). He couldn't focus on the names and numbers before him, though, because his mind was swimming in thoughts of iron furnaces and blonde hair.

In the kitchen, Angela set Dwight's coffee mug down on the counter. She opened the cabinet and grabbed her own mug, filling it with water before popping it into the microwave. There wasn't a way to make _proper_ tea at the office, but she dealt with what she had. While the microwave heated up her cup, she poured some water into the back carafe of the coffee maker, put an appropriate amount of coffee grounds in a filter, and waited.

She took a deep breath and allowed herself to think about the events that had transpired in the bullpen. She still had at least an hour's worth of work to do, and it would probably take even longer if she didn't straighten everything out and come up with some sort of plan.

Dwight. Anthracite Heritage Museum. Saturday.

Her mind immediately went to find a flaw. Not so much because she didn't want to go, but because she didn't want _to want_ to go, and her mind had long since been trained to scrutinize. If she were going to go, she'd have to rationalize it. Somehow. Because she really did love the anthracite museum, and she couldn't imagine a better place for a first date. Dinner was too intimate; movies were often inappropriate. And the way he had asked, it had just been so thoughtful and tactful and completely respectable. No awkward questions or putting her on the spot. If anyone had been around (and thank God no one was), nobody would have been the wiser, and there was something so mesmerizing about the intricacy of it. Whether he put a lot of thought into his methods or whether it was just his natural inclination didn't matter; she appreciated it regardless.

There was that bit about his cousin Mose, though. _That_ wasn't exactly ideal, but she supposed that it couldn't hurt to have a chaperone. His presence would surely keep them decent and honest ( _not_ that she had any worries about that sort of thing, but Angela firmly believed in the 'better safe than sorry' adage). Besides, with Dwight's cousin there, it wouldn't even _look_ like a date.

Because it wasn't a _date_ , she clarified. It was a… meeting. Yes, a meeting between two people to evaluate potential compatibility. Nothing more.

The microwave beeped, startling her. Angela pulled her cup from the microwave and set it on the counter as she grabbed some tea. There was only one bag of chamomile left, so she made a mental note to order more. Phyllis claimed that she didn't like chamomile because it made her sleepy, but for Angela, it simply helped her to destress. It soothed her nerves and helped her focus, and if there was anything she needed in that moment, it was _focus_.

So she let her tea steep, slowly bobbing the bag as she delved back into her mind.

 _If_ she decided to go to the Anthracite Heritage Museum on Saturday (she'd said _maybe_ , after all), then she'd have to lay out her expectations. And _if_ that _meeting_ went well, then they'd have to establish some rules of engagement. She wasn't about to let herself get pulled into some whirlwind romance. That was for harlots and tramps and women on television (Rachel Green, much?).

No, Angela Martin would _not_ be the next Rachel Green. She absolutely refused.

The water stopped dripping into the coffee pot, so Angela grabbed the pot and poured the entirety of its contents into Dwight's mug. She wasn't fond of waste; she knew _exactly_ how much water and grounds were necessary for a single cup of coffee. She rinsed out the pot, set it back in the machine, and threw away the paper filter before grabbing the two mugs and heading back into the office as a woman of new resolve.

She walked over to Dwight and handed him his coffee with her usually steely expression back in place. Then she quickly sat back at her desk, took a hard swig of tea, and continued working on the correlated tax forms.

=/\=/\=/\=

One hour, eight minutes, and forty-four seconds later, everything had been finished. She'd prepared all the forms to be mailed and set them in the outbox for Pam to see in the morning. She'd finished putting away all the old files that she'd had to dig up, and she'd cleared all the clutter off of her desk so that it was the epitome of neat and tidy and ready for a fresh day of work. She'd cleaned out the coffee mugs and put them away while Dwight had fetched their coats. They'd exited the office quietly, Dwight making sure to hold every door open for her and lock every door shut behind him. Their ride on the elevator and subsequent walk to the parking lot had been completely silent, save for the soft whir of the elevator and the gentle chirping of crickets.

And now, standing by her car and looking up at him, she'd developed a mild case of déjà vu. It wasn't unfounded; she and Dwight had found themselves in a similar position just a few weeks prior, when he had so nobly offered to help her with her car troubles. Something was different, though, and Angela couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. Maybe it was that she had had some time for him to drift into her thoughts, allowing the neuronal nets of her mind to capture and replay every touch and every glance between them. Or maybe it was the long night of working in the office with Dwight as her sole companion; no pressure for small talk, just a comfortable ambience that fostered productivity. Maybe it was the fact that she might run into him at the anthracite museum on Saturday.

Maybe, she thought, it was the way he was looking at her, with the moon reflecting in eyes that seemed to be examining her in the very same way she was examining him. She didn't know how to explain it, and she didn't dare try, but something about _him_ and the star-filled sky and the vague, musky scent of earth… Well, something about it just felt _nice_. She wouldn't go so far as to say that it felt _right_ \- she simply wasn't that kind of woman - but if someone from an outside perspective were to describe it that way, she wouldn't bother to correct them.

Dwight cleared his throat.

Angela blinked.

"Thank you for walking me to my car," she said, making no effort to unlock her vehicle. She felt jittery, but she wasn't the fidgeting type.

"You're welcome," he said simply. He knew why his heart was beating so quickly and why his hands felt so clammy and why his voice sounded so frail and foreign to him. He knew why, and he cursed himself for appearing so weak, especially in front of Angela. Weakness wasn't an attractive quality in a potential mate.

Maybe that was why he felt so attracted to her. She had no perceivable weaknesses (other than the fact that she didn't speak German, but that could be taught).

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing seemed right, so he opted to say nothing at all. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, though, and Dwight K. Schrute had never been known to be a coward.

So he took a step towards her, and then he was right in front of her, his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath on the tip of her nose. Hints of coffee, which was insufferable coming from Michael, but for some reason, it wasn't nearly as bothersome from Dwight. It was kind of nice, actually. It suited him.

The scent of coffee, the scent of earth and beets. The scent of a _man_.

"I…" he said. He turned away for a moment to clear his throat. His voice was quiet, but steady. Firm, secure. "I had an enjoyable time tonight. You are a very proficient worker."

She couldn't pull her eyes away from his; she wasn't sure she wanted to. "Thank you." Her voice came out as barely more than a breathless whisper.

He nodded. She swallowed the lump in her throat, determined to get the best of her rampant emotions. After years of perfecting a professional image, it felt strange and uncomfortable to have someone barge in and paint all over it. She didn't like it. Except that she _did_ , and she hated that she did. Part of her firmly said _no_ , and another part screamed _yes_ , and the latter screamed so loudly and with such fury that it was difficult to ignore.

Unable to tell if he was going to say something more or simply continue standing there like a fool, she spoke. "Is there… anything else?"

"Yes," he said firmly, nodding again. "I would like to kiss you."

He hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until he saw the shocked expression on her face. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself, but every possible explanation fled his mind, and he stood there with his mouth open wide, mouthing incoherent syllables and looking strikingly similar to a hungry fish. "I-," he stuttered, already kicking himself for having messed everything up so soon. _God_ , why couldn't he have just kept that thought to himself?

Angela, for the most part, wasn't sure whether she should slap him or kiss him or both or neither. She was merely so stunned by his declaration that her mind had stopped processing anything altogether. And then her senses booted up again, and she saw how conflicted he was, and how angry he was at himself for what he'd said. She saw a flush of emotions run across his face so quickly that she couldn't quite classify what any of them were, but they all seemed frightened and regretful and bitter. She realized that he was already preparing to be reprimanded, and really, she thought, that was the mark of a good man. He was clearly concerned with what she thought of him and how he came across to her.

Her face softened. Despite his comment (and her better judgement), she, too, really wanted him to kiss her.

They stood for a moment, silent, neither of them quite sure what to say or do. Dwight looking at Angela for any indication of how she felt, Angela looking at Dwight for any sign of action.

She wasn't going to kiss him. She was absolutely sure of it. Women who initiated the first kiss were not women of high moral standards. No, she wasn't going to initiate _anything_ , but she also wasn't going to spend all night waiting for him to grow a pair.

Impatient, her voice piped up. "If you want to kiss me, then do it," she said, maybe a little more forcefully than she had intended to.

He looked down at her with awe, amazed not only by the fact that she hadn't hit him or yelled at him (he wouldn't have blamed her if she had), but also by the fact that she was going to let him kiss her. That she _wanted_ him to kiss her.

The way she looked and the way she spoke - something about her exuded strength and confidence and decisiveness. He'd wasted so much time trying to be delicate around her, but truth be told, that wasn't him, and it wasn't her, either. There was a fine line between thoughtfulness and diffidence, and they could both appreciate one while condemning the other.

He straightened his posture, feeling more like himself than he had the entire blasted night. And _she_ had done that. Unknowingly, unprovoked; just by being _Angela_. She'd given him his strength of mind back, the strength to gently rest his hands on her hips as he took that last little step between them. The strength to look her dead in the eyes, deep hazel eyes that gave away absolutely nothing of what she was thinking (he loved how unreadable she was). The strength to slowly dip his head towards her, bringing his lips closer and closer to hers until he stopped, just an inch away, to take the moment in. The vaguely familiar scent of vanilla and ginger; shampoo or perfume, he still didn't know, but it was exquisite in its subtlety. The soft whipping of the cool air against them, just barely rustling her hair and causing golden strands to caress her cheeks. The physical warmth emanating from her, helping to foster the seemingly electric heat between them.

Whether it was him or her that finally closed that last bit of space, nobody knew. Maybe it was a little of both. Regardless, her lips were soft and sweet and reminiscent of the chamomile tea she'd made herself an hour ago, and he tasted of coffee and beets just like she'd always thought he might. He was uncomplicated, she thought, and with him, what you saw was exactly what you got. He made no attempts to hide who he was, and even if they didn't agree on everything (or even most things), she greatly admired his conviction. He was a man of principle, a man of honor and dignity. And he kissed like one, too. Strong, burning with desire, but also respectful because, well, because it was _her_ , and it was their first kiss, and there was a protocol for those sorts of things.

He pulled back slightly, his lips just barely grazing hers as he gauged her response. On her tiptoes, eyes still closed, she wanted to slide her hands up his chest and around his neck. She wanted to pull him even closer to her and memorize the texture of his lips. But there was a time and a place for such things, and after hours in the Dunder Mifflin parking lot certainly wasn't one of them, so she settled for giving him a soft peck and lowering her heels to the ground.

Besides, they hadn't actually _gone_ on the date - er, _meeting_ \- yet. And really, the meeting would largely determine if this _thing_ had any sort of foreseeable future. It would be unfair to tease him with such blatant romantic gestures without any form of commitment.

It would also make her a whore.

It had been a rather nice kiss, though. And _one_ kiss did not a whore make. Technically, kissing wasn't even forbidden, but she knew the looks she'd get if the women at church knew, and she knew she'd be spending the night on her knees, repenting and asking for forgiveness.

An uncomfortable knot welled in her stomach. And that dumb, happy look on his face didn't make it any better.

She coughed.

"You can't tell _anyone_ about this," she hissed, her severe exterior settling back into place. She felt much more comfortable under its protection. "I don't want my personal business being aired throughout the office like some television special."

All traces of unbecoming emotion vanished from his face instantly as he took a step back, and Dwight returned to his normal, inscrutable self. Weeks ago, that very personality might have annoyed her, but in that moment, she was grateful for the stern, stubborn man before her. "Agreed. Romantic conduct in the workplace is unprofessional."

Angela gave him a terse nod, but she felt a small tingle of joy at the phrase _romantic conduct_. "Exactly. Communication at the office should be limited to business matters _only_. Via e-mail, preferably." She paused. "But if we _must_ talk, it should be professional. And discreet."

"And in code."

"Yes. Assuming the _meeting_ this weekend goes well-"

"It will," he interrupted, confident.

She raised an eyebrow, careful not to convey her excitement. Confidence was a _very_ attractive quality in a man. " _If_ it goes well," she continued, "and I happen to run into you again, we can't be seen together."

"Of course not," Dwight said, shaking his head woefully. "I can't _imagine_ the things Jim Halpert would say if he got his hands on this information."

"Right. So it's all agreed upon?" she asked, extending her hand to him in a very stiff, businesslike manner.

"Agreed," he said, giving her the solid handshake of a good salesman.

"Good," she said, pulling her hand back to her side. "It's settled. We can discuss the specific terms and conditions of this arrangement Saturday. Nine o'clock. Sharp."

Dwight nodded. "Excellent. I'm looking forward to it."

"Likewise."

They stared at each other for a moment longer before Angela abruptly turned to her car and Dwight made his way towards his own vehicle.

That night, both of them had faint traces of a smile as they drove to their respective homes.

=/\=/\=/\=

Throughout the week, they barely spoke to each other. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were a blur of professionalism and silent anticipation.

On Saturday, Dwight took his cousin Mose to the Pennsylvania Anthracite Heritage Museum. Unsurprisingly, he ran into someone familiar.

The meeting went well.

=/\=/\=/\=


End file.
